


house rules

by superlawyer



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Blindfolds, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superlawyer/pseuds/superlawyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter sneaks into Matt’s place in the hopes of finding something he'd misplaced. Matt ends up finding it, and he's not too pleased with Peter trespassing into his private residence, especially since Matt is a Very Private Person. </p><p>From there, hijinks ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	house rules

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for an anonymous prompt requesting Peter losing something, Matt finding it, and there being consequences. This is what happened. I’m really sorry, as always, in advance. This is also somewhat inspired by the times that Peter's snuck into Matt's place in the comics. And just in case it's not clear, this is pretty much from Peter's third limited POV.

Peter slinks into the kitchen of the apartment, his eyes scanning around for any signs of life. He shrugs, then opens the refrigerator and examines its contents. He grabs an apple from the fruit crisper. 

Matt’s refrigerator had the most complicated set-up he’d ever seen. In addition to the shelves being stocked with individually sealed portions of “healthy snacks” and neatly lined rows of beverages, everything aromatic (fruits, vegetables, leftovers, takeout) was separated into the default sections, and then, within those, separated into closed subsections in glass snap-lock containers, all marked with Braille labels. Peter knows the divisions are to minimize the mixing of smells, but he suspects that it’s more Matt being anal than anything else.

He takes a bite of the apple and shuts the door with his foot. Turning away to shut the window behind him, he faces a slightly amused Daredevil, smirk playing lightly on his face. Peter jumps, partially clinging to the refrigerator door. Matt opens the window and quickly climbs into the kitchen. He closes the window and draws the blinds shut.

“Peter,” Matt puts on his Authoritative Lawyer Voice, “How did you get in here?”

Peter drops down from the door, nonchalantly, “Uh,” He begins, chewing, “Window.”

“Peter,” Matt starts again, “Why did you take the window?”

The younger man gestures to his costume, “This. I wasn’t going to come in through the lobby like this.”

Matt laughs, with the faintest touch of bitterness, “I’m going to assume that you’re in your suit, then,” His amusement ceases, “Which brings me to my main point: _why_ are you here? What could possibly be so important?” 

Peter fidgets, scratching behind his head, averting eye contact. The lenses on the Daredevil suit were incredibly intimidating, all red and blood and smoldering, scowling fire. What was even more unsettling was knowing that wide, opalescent, almost unblinking eyes were underneath, and those eyes alone could stare right through you, inducing the truth faster and more effortlessly than any spell or mixture.

Peter’s theory is that Matt wears sunglasses in court because if he didn’t, he’d get disbarred or something from being unfairly good at making people freak out and confess.

It’s a flawed theory, but Peter’s no attorney, and with good reason, as he struggles to come up with a response.

“Well, see, uh,” Peter sets the apple down on the counter, “I kind of lost something.”

Matt sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Was it your sanity?”

“No,” Peter wants to say under his breath _not that you have room to talk_ , but he decides against it, wanting to exercise good judgment for a change, “It’s important. I need it. I think I might’ve left it here.”

Matt finally takes his mask off, sunset red hair matted to his skin. He instinctually runs a hand through it, fluffing it. He pauses, and Peter assumes he’s listening in to his heartbeat. Matt responds, “Okay. I’ll bite. Describe what it is.”

Peter replies, a touch more panicked, “I don’t know how to describe it,” He frowns, “It’s. It looks like a can opener had a baby with a remote, I guess. It’s got a big button on it, with a few smaller ones. Standard tech piece.”

“What size is it? Where do you think you left it? Did you check in _your_ apartment?” Matt’s Lawyer Voice fires off, and Peter feels as if he’s being cross-examined. Stuff like this is why he can no longer watch _Law & Order._

“Like, a little smaller than your remote control. Mostly composite metal. Some plastic. I guess it could be in your living room, which I was about to head to before you came in. And yes. I checked everywhere else. It’s not at my place.”

Matt sighs again, long-suffering, “You are so unorganized,” He chides, “But go. Go check in the living room. You can check anywhere in here that isn’t locked. I’ll do what I can. Meet here in twenty.”

“Aye, Captain,” Peter gives a half-hearted salute, and heads to the living room.

—

Matt’s apartment is dismayingly large. 

Peter has many, many theories about Matt, and one of them is that he must be a high-class escort or something for the rich women (and/or men) of Manhattan, because there is no way, with the type of cases he tended to favor, that he was able to afford all of this otherwise. It's Hell’s Kitchen, but still. It's getting costlier and costlier with every passing step in the gentrification process taking over the neighborhood lately.

He searches the tidy living room, reaching in the sofa cushions, looking in the endtable drawers, digging under the coffee table, scanning the bookshelf. No luck.

He moves to the dining area, giving it a once-over. Nope. Nothing.

The hall bathroom, hall, and foyer prove equally fruitless.

Unlocked doors. Well, that’s all of them. Except for one.

Would Matt mind if Peter poked in his bedroom?

No, he couldn’t possibly. They were _close_. He would let Matt inside of his bedroom to snoop, if he didn’t object or say it smelled like Lysol and markers and stale instant ramen, or whatever.

He turns the knob gingerly. He’s never been in the bedroom. This is uncharted territory. Uncharted, probably dangerous territory.

He slips inside, shutting the door behind him as quietly as he can. Padding in, he notes how immaculate the space is, but also how well it represents its owner. Functional and streamlined, but also edgy and saturnine. For someone who can’t appreciate color, he sure liked his red, black, and gray. Has to impress the guests, Peter supposes.

He begins his search, checking the exposed areas, the shelves, the floor, the bed, and the bathroom. Nothing. Time for the drawers, and under the bed. Peter silently prays to every deity and Space-God that he won’t get caught, as he opens up one of the two bedside drawers.

The first drawer contains spare plastic-rimmed sunglasses, a recorder, a prepaid phone, some air freshener tags, a tin of strawberry (strawberry?) flavored mints, a pack of ear plugs, miscellaneous pill bottles, and a small bottle of hand lotion, which almost makes Peter laugh. Hand lotion. He knows that routine more intimately than he’d care to admit.

He checks the other drawer. Similarly mundane items. A beat. Peter pries at bottom of the drawer, lifting it up at its edge. _Of course_ Matt has a decoy drawer. For little weapons and stuff, like in the shows and movies. 

Peter fights the urge to laugh. No little weapons. There’s a switchblade and some mysterious tubes and containers, but the majority of the contents in the drawer aren’t weapons at all. 

Toys, and things. Bottles. A large box of condoms (oh, wow, just rub it in, dude). And a flashlight that isn’t a flashlight at all. No lost item, but—

Senses fire off and tingle. The door clicks.

“I think I found your—” Matt begins, “Fucking hell.” He rushes in, uncharacteristically flustered, and slams the drawer shut, “Why did you come in here?”

“You said any unlocked do—”

“This is my _bedroom_ , Peter. You’ve never been in here. Why would you think it would be in here?” Matt rebuts, “Oh, that’s right. You weren’t thinking. Forgive me.”

Peter chews the inside of his cheek, “Matt, calm down. You don’t have to be so Catholic about this. It’s really not that,” Still struggling not to laugh, he continues, “ _Big_ of a deal. Everyone does stuff like that sometimes. It’s natural.”

“That may be true, but that doesn’t mean you need to know about it,” Matt says, a blush creeping onto his skin.

“I would’ve found out at some point,” Peter blurts, perhaps too soon. Subject change, “So, you found it? Where was it?”

Matt hesitates, “Wait, what do you mean by, ‘I would’ve found out at some point.’?”

“Nothing,” Peter reaches for the item in Matt’s hands. He reflexively pulls away.

“Tell me, and I’ll give it to you.” Matt replies.

“Don’t be dumb,” Peter chuckles, a tinge nonplussed, “I could _thwip_ that out of your hands, and get out of here faster than you could say ‘Mary Magdalene.’”

“I’ll fight you if you do,” Matt states. Peter’s not sure if he’s joking or not. That was never a good feeling to have, especially around ol’ Manic Murdock. 

He raises his eyebrow, “First, you acted like I needed to leave, and now, you’re fighting me to stay?”

“Not to stay,” Matt clarifies, “To play by the house rules.”

It’s Peter’s turn to bite, “House rules…?”

A sinister grin breaks out on Matt’s face. In the dim lighting, between the grin and those eyes of his, Peter feels genuinely threatened, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up straight, his sense going pins-and-needles.

“God,” Matt breaks character, “Your heartbeat. I really had you going there for a second.”

Peter doesn’t laugh, but responds, “Wait, you were kidding?”

“Oh, no. There’s still a stipulation.”

The younger man swallows thickly, “Stipulation…?”

“You tell me what you meant earlier, and I’ll give you this gadget back.”

Peter feels the blood drain, “Nothing,” Another gulp, “I meant nothing. Just another dumb comment. I make those a lot, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Y’know, for a supposed genius, you’re kind of an idiot,” Matt smirks, “It’s not like I have the ability to sense when someone’s lying to me, or anything. That’d be _crazy_.”

Fuck. Peter forgot about that.

“Tell me, or I’m not letting you leave,” Matt states plainly.

“You can’t do that.” Peter replies, indignant. 

“I _can’t_?” Lawyer Voice _and_ Lawyer Strut mode engaged, “Funny that you say that, considering _you_ broke into my _private_ residence and trespassed. Technically, theft, too, for the apple. If this were Biblical times, I could have you stoned for that,” He moves closer to Peter, circling around him, stopping to purr near his ear, eerily close, “You could have it _so_ much worse.”

Peter shivers, “Point taken.”

Matt resumes circling, his arms behind his back, mirroring a hawk narrowing in on its prey, “So, what were you implying with that statement, Mr. Parker?”

“I, uh, stuff,” Peter stammers, “Just stuff, you know, stuff-stuff. Stuff.”

Matt laughs again, darker and richer this time, “You’d be terrible in court. Or, wait, you _were_. Remind me to ask Jen how that went. Still need to hear that story…” He taps his chin. Peter relaxes a little, before he finishes, “I want you to admit your true intent.”

Peter tenses again, Matt stopping in front of him, uncomfortably close, those _eyes_ staring at him, boring holes into him. He tries not to fidget.

“I,” Peter can’t keep eye contact, “Fuck.” He has no other excuses. No other stories. No alibi. Only a lie detecting, well-trained, unnervingly attractive, imposing lawyer staring at him, looking down, tall enough to do so, but not so tall that he can’t look Peter straight in the eyes and make him feel like microwaved gelatin.

They arrive at a momentary standstill. It’s one of the longest moments Peter’s had to deal with in a while. Matt’s simply looking at him, not blinking, simply looking, scanning, observing. Peter returns eye contact, too, then he looks at the rest of the other man’s face, and wow, he’s way too pretty to fight street crime.

Then, it isn’t a moment. Then, it’s Matt’s lips on his, pressing roughly, his tongue roaming, his hands firmly holding the brunet’s jaw. Peter mewls, taken aback, then he goes with it, because yeah, _wow_ , the guy’s a great kisser. Aggressive, but not overbearingly so.

Matt pulls away, eyes wider than usual, breathing erratic. Another pause of stillness, stagnation. Peter can hear his own heartbeat now, and he can only wonder how blaring it must be to Matt.

The redhead leans in again, attacking harder, tongue searching and rubbing. Peter sucks on it, experimentally, and it’s Matt’s turn to mewl into his lips.

Matt pushes them on the bed, Peter’s knees buckling as they hit the edge, rocking against each other lightly, the sensation of contact-on-contact through the thin material of their suits driving them both crazy. They break the kiss, panting. The older man straddles him, looking down again, milk-white eyes glassier than usual, tones of the blue irises obscured underneath shining through.

He gives Peter an inquisitive look, silent. Peter’s seen that look. He’s _done_ that look. That’s the look of, “Hey, I’m about to do stuff to you, but if you don’t want me to, let me know now.”. 

Peter tries not to nod too emphatically.

Matt kisses down Peter’s neck, gently tonguing his Adam’s apple before sucking at it, leaving a mark. He stops at the neckline of the suit. Peter sits up, reaching to remove it, but Matt bats his hands away, tugging the top off himself, tight spandex revealing shamefully pale skin and muscles that Peter has been thankful for every day since high school.

Matt forms more marks on Peter, this time biting at his collarbone, making him squirm. Peter can feel him smirk against his skin, the bastard.

Matt continues to kiss a trail down his torso, stopping at the waistband of his pants, sighing playfully, “Maybe I should’ve gotten you undressed before all of this.”

Peter doesn’t reply, because if he does, he runs the risk of saying something stupid, and there is no way in hell that he’d want to kill this… _mood_ right now. He lifts his hips up off the bed, allowing Matt to pull down his tights and briefs in one painstaking tug.

Matt half-smiles, and Peter knows his radar’s picked up on his frankly painful erection. He battles himself to still.

“This is why your heart’s going like that,” Matt teases, and he really wishes he wouldn’t, but he doesn’t dare complain, “All the blood in your body’s here.”

Peter nods again, and Matt makes a face, “What, no quip?”

“Matt,” Peter grits out, “My brain is melting.”

Matt’s still just down there, sitting up, annoyingly not-naked, “So…?”

“Matt,” Peter clenches his jaw, needing.

“Magic word. Say it.” Matt demands, and fuck, if he weren’t so pretty. If his eyes weren’t dark and nebulous and looking right at him. If his lips weren’t so full and swollen and pink. If his features weren’t so finely chiseled, if his jaw wasn’t so strong, if his hair wasn’t so messy and bright and sticking up in obscene ways. How anyone believed that someone who looked like that goes out and willingly gets his face punched up every other night was beyond Peter’s comprehension.

“Abracadabra?” Peter quips. There it goes. Second only to the infamous Parker Luck was the infamous Parker Mouth. He really had to see one of the eight or so doctors he knew about that.

Matt doesn’t laugh. He pulls up and off the bed and ducks under the it. Ten insufferable seconds pass.

Matt comes back up with a blindfold, and another set of billy clubs, and Peter’s pretty positive he can see the Devil horns peek out of his hair, even with the mask off.

“These are the house rules.” He gestures to the items, “Some of them, at least. You’ve warranted them.”

Peter opens his mouth to say something. A protest. Anything. 

Matt preempts, “You make another noise that isn’t either you moaning and whining like a little slut, or you calling my name, and I _will_ get the gag.”

That look in his eyes tells Peter he certainly isn’t kidding about that.

Peter simply nods, and Matt moves him up against the metal headboard. Despite his strength, Peter doesn’t want to fight. He knows he’s faster. He knows he’s stronger. He knows he could grab one of Matt’s coats, throw it on, get his tool, and run away if he really wanted to, dignity intact. But this was… different. Not even Felicia did this with him, not like this. He made it a point to try new things this year. This is definitely a new thing. 

Matt binds Peter’s hands and ties his wrists through the bars of the headboard with the clubs. He slips the blindfold over Peter’s eyes, tying it tightly, whispering, “I want you to experience this how I experience this.” 

Electricity strikes all through Peter. If that isn’t the hottest thing he’s heard…

Matt sits back, as if to admire his handiwork, before undressing. Peter can hear the sound of his clothes fall on the floor, and at that moment, he wishes he wasn't blindfolded.

Matt hovers over Peter’s hips, warm breath ghosting against his skin, inducing more shivers. An indeterminate beat, and then Matt’s _there_ , dipping down, swallowing as much as he can without gagging. Peter bucks, groaning, and Matt stills his hips with his hands, large enough to pin him. His head bobs back up, pillowy lips forming an ungodly ring of suction, his cheeks hollow. The room is silent, save for Peter trying (and mostly failing) to suppress his groans, and the wet _shlick_ of Matt’s lips dragging up and down around him. He’s good at this, way too good, lapping at the head and tracing the underside with his tongue, following his curve with the tip of it. 

Giving amazing head had to be a part of the ninja curriculum, or something, because yeah, no, Peter has never felt this good from _that_ in his life, and he’s had some perfectly pleasurable experiences in his lifetime. He manages to shimmy the blindfold up enough to see out of the very bottom of it, and he really wasn’t prepared to see Matt like that. 

Lust devours Peter. He can’t take it anymore.

“Matt,” He whines, “Fuck, please.”

Matt comes off with a pop, lips shining wet with spit and precome, and oh, God, that’s _his_. Peter did that. The thought alone makes him want to explode right then and there.

“Yes?” Matt blinks, expectantly.

“I,” Peter’s scared, so scared, but so curious, too. _Scientific_ curiosity. He was doing this for science, of course, “I want you to,” He can’t say it without sounding over-the-top. He can’t. He's not that type of person, right? He’s a good, straight-laced guy. Straight-laced guys don’t beg like that. 

Matt raises an eyebrow, swirling his tongue around the head, teasing, “Want me to _what,_ Peter?”

“Y-you know,” Peter’s trembling now. He feels like this is his first time. Might as well be, because he’s never done what he hopes will happen next.

“I’m not a telepath,” Matt punctuates his response by pecking kisses along the shaft, “That’s not a sense I gained.”

Peter’s usually the one to do the teasing. Being on the receiving end was _bullshit._ He’s never been this frustrated, not even in battle. 

“Matt,” Peter bites his lip practically hard enough to draw blood, “Please. Fuck me. _Please._ ”

There goes the whole “straight-laced” thing. 

Matt gets off the bed, and Peter catches a glimpse of his length. He wishes he hadn’t, because he’s even more intimidated. Those extra briefs of his really do a good job of hiding _that,_ Peter notes. He rummages through the nightstand, pulling out a taper, a bottle of lube, a condom, and a ring.

“This is a new house rule,” Matt says, his voice huskier than usual, “I’m going to put it on you, and you’re going to tell me what it is.”

Peter darts his gaze down out of the edge of the blindfold. As before, he wishes he hadn’t. He could _kill_ Matt.

Matt’s fingertips sear his skin as he secures the ring at his base. _Miserable_ tightness and fullness. Peter’s pretty sure his dick is going to break.

“Okay,” Matt starts, “What is it?”

Peter’s burning up. He rasps, “A… cock ring.”

“Yes.” Matt confirms, “I think you know how these work. You don’t come until I say so.”

Peter contains a whine. He’d rather the stoning than this... punishment.

A bottle flicks open, and Peter feels warmth, faintly serum-like, but a little more syrupy. His stomach turns. This is actually going to happen. He’s actually going to get fucked.

Matt pulls the younger man’s legs further apart, spreading them before lifting his hips and sliding a pillow underneath. He presses an oil-slicked finger against him. 

His demeanor softens, “Peter, relax. I need you to relax.”

Peter can’t relax on a normal day. This was a day where he was going to get fucked. In the ass. By one of his partners. By Matt. 

This is not a normal day by any stretch of the imagination.

“Calm down, okay?” Matt affectionately presses a kiss to the inside of Peter’s thigh, “Things get too rough, you let me know, and I’ll stop.”

Peter coughs out, weakly, “Swear?”

“Swear.”

Peter inhales, then exhales, yoga breathing, something he tried once then got bored with, because when you get bit by a radioactive spider and get super-bendy-powers, something like yoga does nothing for flexibility. But regardless. Yoga breathing.

Matt tries a second time, gradually pushing, his free hand gently rubbing circles on his thigh, reassuring. Peter fidgets. It’s in, but feels disarmingly foreign. 

Matt might actually be a telepath. Or just really perceptive to touch and sensation. But more likely a telepath, because he assures him, “It gets so much better than this. Trust me.” Now, Peter has images of this getting done to Matt, _prettyboy_ Matt, and the ring around him feels even tighter.

Matt pulls it out, then works in two, scissoring, moving slowly, agonizingly slow. Two becomes three, and it’s faster, and deeper, and fuck, what was that he brushed, and yeah, he needs to do that again, and yeah, he does, and now they’re out, and Peter groans.

“Going to keep you ready for me,” Matt says, sliding in a thin taper. Peter already feels too full from it. 

Matt moves up to Peter, straddling his torso with his thighs. Peter peeks under the blindfold. _Oh_.

Matt pushes forward, grabbing one of the headboard’s bars, positioning, “In the meantime, open your mouth.”

Peter complies, and Matt presses in, using the headboard as leverage to rock his hips, pushing his shaft in and out, his other hand fisting unkempt brown hair, tugging. Peter moans around Matt, his lips pulled painfully wide, and Matt just keeps fucking his mouth, saying little prayers under his breath and grunting. His head keeps hitting the back of Peter’s throat, and he gags with each rut, but it’s so worth it, so worth it to hear the sounds from Matt’s mouth. He can feel himself wince, and Matt finally pulls out.

“Shit, can’t let myself get too carried away. Just wanted to feel your mouth,” Matt grits out, and he moves back down between Peter’s thighs. He pulls out the taper, and slides on a condom, the sound of the bottle flicking open reverberating throughout the bedroom once more. He coats himself thoroughly, and Peter simultaneously wishes he would hurry up already, and also _nevereverstop_.

Matt lines up, lifting Peter’s lean body, his legs wrapped around Matt’s neck, “Fuck, if you aren’t flexible,” Peter blushes. No need for yoga.

A push. A push is all it takes for Peter to finally realize that this is not only happening, but it’s happening _right now_. Matt’s head is in, and he hisses, “You’re still too fucking tight,” He pushes in further, burying more of him deeper, “I’ll fix that.” 

Matt’s in now, to the hilt, as much as he can go in, and Peter wants to cry. It’s too much, the fullness in him, the fullness from the ring, all too much, and he just wants to sob.

Matt acclimates, and drags his hips back out, vaguely serpentine noises slithering out of his mouth. His cock works Peter open, more and more, and he moves faster, finding a rhythm, digging his hands into Peter’s legs, thrusting in excruciatingly hard and fast.

“Matt, Jesus, fuck,” Peter manages, his voice pubescent, cracking up and dissolving.

Matt doesn’t respond. He’s focused. So focused. Driving in and hammering and taking what’s _his_. The percussive rhythm of skin slapping and slamming against skin and Peter’s moans and swears create a soundtrack. Matt always did love music.

Then, there’s noise from him. Matt swears under his breath, breathing heavy, fucking in as if this is his sole purpose in life, his only reason for being. Peter aches, not solely from pain, now dulled, but from want, too. He has to come, or he’ll pass out. It’s _too much_ otherwise.

“Matt, fuck me, engh,” Peter tries egging him on, “S-spill into me, fill me.” Matt’s still entranced, his thrusts hitting that same spot over and over, making Peter want to break down and cry, “I-I-I’m…”

He tries to continue, but speech fails him, because when he focuses on the darkness of the blindfold, and Matt’s little noises, and the sound of them colliding, it’s dizzying, and so much more intense, and he has to see, fully see, _now_.

“Please,” Peter pleads, “ _Need_.”

Matt’s drives grow more erratic, hitting at varying angles, still fast and hard, but not militantly precise. He doesn’t really have to respond, because Peter already knows the answer.

“Come for me,” Matt’s voice is not his. It’s even deeper and moodier, more similar to his Daredevil voice.

That’s all Peter needs to hear to let his body take over.

His hips spasm and he groans, almost convulsing, thick ribbons of come spraying on his chest and pelvis, so much, too much, the well has to run dry soon, but no, more, and more. He’s never come this hard, Matt’s cock flush against his spot, jabbing and prodding, Matt’s hand milking it out of him, _Matt_. So much, so much that he sees blackness, and stars, and the entire universe, and then blackness again. It is immense and lush and _Matt_.

And it’s Matt. Matt thrusts into him a few more times, then comes undone, and he moans loud, untamed, wild, clutching Peter’s hips hard enough to leave marks, swearing and shaking and spilling out. Peter doesn’t even care that he feels it leak into him, filling him. Matt almost collapses, but catches himself, panting, coming down. Peter can only assume his senses are going haywire.

His shoulders heave, and he stays inside for a moment, still catching his breath as they ride out the waves, both shaking, “Fuck.”

Peter chuckles meagerly, “Yeah. That’s about right.”

Matt pulls out, slowly, and blushes, realizing the mess he made, “I’ll get a towel.”

“It’s okay,” Peter’s heart is still in overdrive, “I’ll, I’ll take care of it.”

Matt leans up, pulling off Peter’s blindfold. He blinks repeatedly, eyes adjusting from darkness to dim light.

“Redheads.” Peter says. His voice is full-on twelve-year-old now.

“Hm?” Matt returns to the bed, cleaned off, with a damp towel. He starts to clean off Peter, carefully removing the ring.

“Just reminded me of a joke I have with a buddy,” Peter smirks, wincing again from the drag of the ring, “It’s been _way_ longer than twenty minutes, also.”

“Mm. Yeah. Forgot about that,” Matt puts a serious face on, “I was taught those techniques as part of my training. One of the things I’m trained in is endurance.”

“Bullshit.” Peter rebukes, but he isn’t entirely sure if Matt’s joking or not, as, well, usual. He did have Elektra…

Matt gets back up, retrieving Peter’s lost item, “Didn’t you ‘urgently need’ this a little while ago?”

“Yes,” Peter tugs at his restraints, “If you’ll untie me…”

Matt laughs, the happiest one of the night, “I kind of like having you there like that,” He wrinkles his nose, faint freckles made clearer, “You’re way more fun than a Fleshlight.”

Peter isn’t sure whether or not to be flattered or appalled. A change of subject is needed.

Peter waits. Matt reaches up and unties him, his wrists red and bruised. He murmurs a comment about “resisting too much”. 

Peter waits. He rolls his wrists around and wiggles his fingers, regaining sensation, something that he can’t quite say for his lower half (but will most likely be saying and swearing and shaking his fists tomorrow morning when the pain settles in).

Peter waits. Matt extends an offer for him to stay the night, if it’s not an issue, and lies next to him, remaining delightfully naked. He’s relaxed, eyes lidded, sated, face flushed, lips swollen up and cherry-hued. There goes that unreal prettiness again. Peter has to know. _Has to._

“So, Matt, are you an escort?”

\- end - 


End file.
